


The Ninth Step

by Sineala



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Alcoholics Anonymous, Apologies, Avengers Vol. 1 (1963), Community: cap_ironman, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pre-Slash, Stony Bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 01:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: Steve hasn't seen Tony since he was rescuing him, drunk, from a burning building. But Tony's sober now, he's at Steve's door, and he wants to make amends. Though maybe "want" isn't exactly the right word for it.





	The Ninth Step

**Author's Note:**

> For Cap-IM Bingo, the square "remorse."
> 
> Thanks to BlossomsintheMist for beta!

Steve's sitting on his bed, polishing his boots, and feeling more than a little like he's at loose ends. If he doesn't look up, he can pretend that this is any one of a thousand days spent in the mansion. His mind fills in memories of Avengers who could even now be walking down the hallway on the other side of the door. Clint and the rest of the quartet. Tony and the rest of the founders. But Clint's in California, starting up a brand-new team in Los Angeles, and Tony-- Tony--

It's hard to think about what Tony is or isn't. He doesn't know what Tony is to him now. He doesn't think he's anything to Tony, these days. The last time he saw Tony, Tony was passed out drunk in his arms as he carried him away from a burning building. Tony's not an Avenger anymore. Steve heard that Tony's sober now. He heard Tony's getting his life back together. Tony's in California too. Steve doesn't know what he'd say to him if he saw him.

He's beginning to feel like he doesn't belong here. He used to feel like this all the time, when he woke from the ice -- that three decades was too long, that the world had changed too much for a fossil like him. But somehow he'd carved out a place for himself. He'd learned how to run the team. He'd made a life for himself. He'd made friends. He'd had an apartment of his own. A fiancée. 

The thing is, Steve doesn't even have any of that, these days.

It's Jan's team now, and while Steve doesn't begrudge her the chair, of course, it's one more thing to get used to. And Bernie left him, and now Steve's back here living in the mansion, painfully aware that everything that made Brooklyn Heights feel like home was Bernie's work. All the pictures and knick-knacks and mementos. All the furniture, even. He came back to the mansion with a goddamn flag that he tacked up on the wall above his bed, because that's all he's ever had, really. Duty over love. That's always what he's picked.

If he looks up, he can see the flag now. Jan teased him about it when he was hanging it up. He wonders if it makes him look pathetic. He hates that he thinks that. But here he is, just a guy with a flag, crashing in a spare room at a billionaire's mansion.

And then that brings him back to Tony, his first friend in the future. He used to think they'd always have each other, that the bond between them was so strong it could never be broken. He used to let himself think, even, that they could be more, as if someone like Tony, a gorgeous guy who could have his pick of the entire world, who always looked forward into the future, would ever settle for a relic of the past. Now he wants to laugh at himself. He used to be such an optimist. Never mind a date; he'll be lucky if Tony ever wants to be in the same room with him again.

He works the polish into the leather of his boots a little more forcefully than is strictly warranted. He has this, for now. He's Captain America. He has his duty, because that's all he has left.

Someone knocks on his door.

It's probably Jan. Some kind of Avengers business. He puts the lid back on the polish tin, drops his boots on the floor, and levers himself off the bed, opening the door to see--

Tony.

Steve blinks stupidly at him and wonders if he's dreaming. Tony looks a hell of a lot better than he did the last time he saw him. There are lines on his face Steve doesn't remember, but he's standing tall. His hair is long, fashionable, curling slightly. Steve can see the bones of his wrists standing out, half-hidden by his shirt cuffs. His shirt's a bit unbuttoned as well, revealing the prominent edge of his collarbones. He has one hand shoved in his jeans pocket. His face is tight with awkwardness, with nervouness, and he's not exactly smiling.

But he's here. He's not in California. He's right here at Steve's door.

"Hi, Steve." When Tony speaks, it's like Steve's forgotten in these past months what Tony sounded like. His memories have flattened everything out. Tony is so full of life, he thinks, and then he thinks that maybe he's thinking that because the last time he saw Tony, Tony wasn't.

"I," Steve says, and he discovers he's at a loss for words already. "I, uh. I didn't know you were here."

_Good one, Rogers._

Tony smiles now, faintly, a little twitch of his lips. "I didn't think you did." He sounds as awkward as he looks. His voice is stiff. Formal. Like they're not even friends.

"So," Steve says, a desperate attempt at normality. He knows he can't say _how have you been_ because he knows the answer is _drunk and half-dead_ and they can't go there. "What brings you to the East Coast? Missing real pizza?"

Tony smiles again, but he doesn't look any more relaxed. "Haven't had any yet," he murmurs. "Anyway, no, I-- I was wondering if I could talk to you." He cranes his neck, peering around Steve, trying to see what he's up to. Steve watches him take in the boots and the leather polish. "But if this is a bad time--"

He says it like he's trying to give him an out, and Steve wonders why Tony is here to talk if he didn't really want to talk at all.

"I'm not busy," Steve assures him. Tension coils in his gut. He doesn't know what Tony wants. "But if this is Avengers business, you're better off talking to Jan. I'm not leading the team."

Tony shakes his head as Steve steps back and lets him in. "I know," he says, and he's fidgeting, not quite looking at Steve. "I still wanted to talk to you." He grimaces. "I'm planning to talk to Jan, too. But I thought I'd try you first."

As Tony settles into the offered chair, perching on the edge of it like he's going to be called to spring into flight at any moment, Steve wonders what the hell is going on. It has to be some kind of team business, doesn't it? Maybe Tony's thinking of coming back to the main team. Maybe he wants some kind of endorsement from Steve. A second chance.

He doesn't want to talk about any of this. He takes the seat opposite Tony. His fingers dig into his thighs. He's abruptly aware of too many inconsequential things. How close Tony is to him. The way the top buttons of Tony's shirt are undone. A hundred things he can never act on.

He wants them to be friends again. He wants to get past this. He doesn't even want to get through this. He wants to skip this part. Another decade in the ice. Isn't that how his life works?

He makes himself smile. "So, what can I do for you?"

Tony exhales hard. He fidgets. His fingers knot together. "I don't know if you heard," he says. His gaze focuses somewhere over Steve's shoulder. "I, uh. I'm sober now. I've been going to Alcoholics Anonymous. I-- I think it's been really good for me."

Oh, Christ. Tony wants to talk about it. He can't-- what the hell does he expect Steve to say? There aren't magic words. What does Tony want to hear from him? Does he even remember everything Steve said to him in that flophouse? How can Steve apologize for that? He knows he didn't say the right thing. He doesn't know what the right thing was.

But Tony's found it, Tony's left him and found people who said whatever he couldn't.

Something very much like anger burns through Steve's body, makes everything in him go hot and tight. Jealousy. It's an ugly feeling. He hates that Tony is making him feel this.

"That's good," Steve forces out. "That's good. I'm glad."

"I don't know if you know much about what AA is like," Tony says. He leaves the sentence unfinished. He's waiting for Steve to ask.

Tony used to do this all the time, when he explained the future. He couldn't be a hundred percent sure what Steve did or didn't know. He left a lot of trailing sentences, waiting to see if Steve understood.

They had AA in Steve's day -- but Steve's still not sure he understands. He doesn't know what the hell Tony gets out of listening to a bunch of alcoholics talk about their struggles. He doesn't know why Tony will listen to them about not drinking. Steve told him not to drink. Jim Rhodes told him. Jan told him. What could a bunch of drunks say that Tony's friends couldn't? What in God's name makes them the answer?

But Tony's flown three thousand miles to talk to him about this, Steve reminds himself. It's important. He can listen.

He thinks he didn't really do a lot of listening, last time.

"I don't know a lot about them," Steve admits. "I mean, I know... there are meetings, right?"

His voice wavers. He feels so stupid.

Tony's smile is gentle. Kind. Like even now that everything is falling apart, Tony still wants to reassure him, to tell him it's okay if he hasn't heard of something. "That's part of it, yeah," Tony says. "There are meetings, and you-- you have a sponsor in the program, someone who's farther along. Someone you can, you know, call if you're having a rough day."

"Oh?"

Tony used to have friends to talk to. Tony used to have _him_. Steve supposes he doesn't count. Not anymore.

"I don't know if you ever met him," Tony says. He's smiling a little, and Steve tamps down once again on the jealousy. "We actually-- we used to be drinking buddies. You must have met him. Henry Hellrung? The actor? He played me on that Avengers TV show."

"I met him." Steve's voice is more terse than he means it to be.

Steve remembers Henry Hellrung. One of the entertainment magazines had thought it would be a grand idea to have a photoshoot -- the Avengers meeting their televised counterparts. Everyone had shown up in costume and in uniform, and in retrospect, since Tony was there as himself, Steve wonders who he had in the Iron Man suit. Henry hadn't really been much like Tony -- he was a working actor, and when he wasn't being paid to pretend to be Tony Steve couldn't see much more than the vague physical resemblance. He was a nice guy, but he didn't have that spark Tony did, that heady combination of brilliance and charisma and utter kindness that had drawn Steve in from the day they'd met. No one else Steve's met has had that. Henry had been almost as charming as Tony, though. A natural in front of the cameras. But then, that had been his job.

It seems just like Tony, somehow, to look for understanding from someone who'd been paid to understand him for the cameras. A hall of mirrors.

Steve knows he should be happy Tony's getting help, and he is, but something about it just chafes him. Rubs him raw. Leaves him bleeding.

He doesn't know how to talk about any of this.

"And there's," Tony continues, "there's-- I mean, it's a twelve-step program. You know that part, right?"

Steve nods. "Yeah. I've heard." He doesn't know what the steps are. He's never needed to. He suspects Tony's going to tell him anyway.

"Well, uh." Tony stares past Steve's shoulder again. He blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. "In one of the steps, you, uh. You make a list of everyone you've harmed, and then in the next step you... you make amends to them." He turns his head, and he's looking Steve in the eyes now. There's a tentative hope in his gaze -- but mostly, he looks like he wants to run. Like he's afraid. Of Steve. Of what Steve will say.

Oh.

Tony came all this way to _apologize to him_.

And now he feels like he's Tony's reflection. He knows exactly why Tony wants to run, because he doesn't want to be here either. Shame sinks its claws into him, rips down his spine. He doesn't deserve this. Sure, Tony might have said some things he wouldn't have said if he'd been sober, but Steve was sober all the way through, and Steve knocked the bottle out of his hand and told him he wasn't a real man, and he didn't know what to say but he knows that that wasn't it. He has no excuses. He was scared. He was _terrified_ for Tony. That's definitely not an excuse.

"That's all right," Steve says, and the words catch in his throat. "That's all right, Tony. You don't need to apologize to me. You don't owe me anything."

The light starts to fade from Tony's eyes. Steve's said the wrong thing again. Tony licks his lips, clenches and unclenches his fists like he wants to be holding something. His eyes are clouded with confusion, like he'd written them a script to get through this conversation and Steve has already diverged from it and started improvising.

He can't believe Tony wants to put him through this just so he can feel better. It seems profoundly selfish. It seems so unlike Tony. But this is what Tony wants. He takes a breath. He understands duty. A duty to their friendship, he supposes. He can try.

"But," Steve adds, haltingly, "you could, if-- if you wanted."

Tony grimaces and runs his fingers through his hair again. He never does this for the cameras. Steve could write a catalog of his nervous tics by now. "I'm not sure _want_ is exactly the right word."

Somehow the reticence changes everything. This isn't Tony putting him through this. This is Tony putting _himself_ through this. This is Tony stepping forward and being brave enough to do this, because the easy path is self-abnegation. This is the right thing to do, because it's going to make him better.

Steve takes a slow breath. Okay. This is for Tony. He can do this for Tony.

"Have you done this step before? The making-amends part?"

Tony did say he came to talk to Jan, so Jan's probably on the list. But Jim is in California -- wouldn't Tony have started there?

Tony shakes his head. "Nope," he admits. "But I figured-- I figured if I could get through this with you--"

He breaks off and his smile is a tense rictus, like he's only now realized that Steve could take that badly, him saying that Steve is hard to talk to about this. Steve hates that this is what they've become, so careful of each other, so afraid that the remnants of their friendship will shatter for good.

"Relax," Steve says, with a confidence he doesn't quite feel, but this is what Tony needs from him. "Breathe. We're getting through this. I'm not going to hurt you. You're my friend, Tony. Always." He reaches out and he puts his hand on Tony's shoulder, patting him firmly. God, he's thin. Tony stares down at Steve's hand, almost awed, as if he never expected that.

"Okay," Tony says. Steve watches his chest rise and fall. "Okay."

Steve lets his hand fall. He sits back. "So, you had something you wanted to tell me?"

Tony nods. His eyes are unfocused again. He takes a breath and starts talking, like it's a recitation. "I know we've known each other for years," he begins, "and I consider you one of my best friends. Your friendship means the world to me. I think -- I like to think, anyway -- that we know each other pretty well. At least, I like to think I know you pretty well, and I think, if I asked you, that you'd say the same about me."

There's a pause. Steve realizes he's being cued. "Of course," he says, and he hopes that this is the reassurance that Tony wants.

"But the thing is," Tony says, and when his gaze meets Steve's there's something cold and lonely in his eyes, "you've never known me when I wasn't drinking." He swallows hard, and he makes a noise that isn't quite a laugh. "I had my first drink when I was seven years old. So you could probably make the argument that _I've_ never known me when I wasn't drinking, either."

"Jesus, Tony." He knows Tony's not one to talk about his childhood, but _seven_? That's-- God, that's really not good. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

Tony waves his hand. "I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm just... establishing the fact. That I've been drinking since you've known me." His throat works. "And I know you're going to say that it wasn't that bad at the beginning, and that it didn't get bad until I murdered the Carnelian ambassador."

"That wasn't you," Steve points out. "That wasn't your choice. That was sabotage."

"I still had to live with it," Tony says, voice hollow, and Steve snaps his mouth shut. "But my point is, even before then, I was drinking. The day we found you, I got home and poured myself a double to celebrate." His mouth quirks. "And, okay, sure, at the beginning I could still be an Avenger. I could still do the things I needed to do. But sometimes I think about the world out there in the multiverse, the world where I never started drinking. There has to be one like that, right? And I think about that world's Tony Stark, and I think about everything he could have accomplished. I think about everything I could have done for the team, for you, if I'd spent that last hour of every night in the lab, clear-headed and focused, instead of kicking back with a scotch in my hand and telling myself it made me more creative if I had a buzz going." His smile is sad and rueful. "And that guy? The sober one? I think he'd have been a better Avenger, from the get-go. A better Avenger, and a better friend to you."

The breath Steve takes is sharp and pained. He knows Tony's not trying to hurt him, but everything within him tenses, like he's raising his shield five seconds too late to avoid the blow. "You can't ask me to make that comparison. And I don't think you should make it yourself, either." His voice rasps. "You're my friend, Tony. _You_. And everything you've been -- that's part of you, too. And now you're sitting here telling me that I don't really know you? That our friendship doesn't really matter because you drank? Because you wish you'd been someone else instead?"

Is this his fault? He knows he's stern. Harsh, even. He knows he always expects the best of people, but he tries not to expect more of anyone than they can give. And here Tony is, telling him that for his sake, he wanted to be someone he can't be, someone who doesn't exist--

"Whoa." Tony holds up his hands, and Steve is positive that this conversation has now entered territory Tony never planned for. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... I want to be better. I'm going to be better. I can't change the past, but that's who I want to be, going forward." He smiles a small smile. "The very best I can be. I owe it to the team. And I owe it to you." His gaze darkens again. "I owe you a hell of a lot of apologies, while I'm at it. About the way this ended. And how I treated you then. I was an unreliable teammate, a danger to others, a disgrace to the team." He pauses. "And I was a goddamn _terrible_ friend."

Unbidden, a memory rises to the surface of Steve's thoughts. Not the last time he saw Tony, in that flophouse, but the time before, when he'd gone with Jan to one of Tony's apartments, looking for him, and Tony had already been drunk, snarling _I don't need your help_ and _get out of my life_. And Steve, well-- Steve had gone.

He can't even think about the flophouse. God, the things he said to Tony--

"It's okay," Steve says, pained. He can't talk about this. "It's okay. For God's sake, Tony, you were drunk, you were completely _wasted_ , of course you said things you wouldn't have, I'm not going to hold it against you--"

He thinks maybe his mother used to talk about his father like that. A scrap of memory, his mother bending down to talk to him after one of his father's rages, her hair falling in her face: _He doesn't mean it, darling. It's the drink talking._ He hasn't thought about that in years. His eyes are hot.

Tony interrupts him. "It was still me, though." His voice is quiet. "I'm not magically absolved of responsibility because I was drunk when I said... everything I said to you. I was the one who picked up the bottle. I was the one who treated you unkindly when you only wanted to help me. I was the one who didn't listen to you." He breathes noisily, like he's trying to hold back tears. "And I was wrong. There's no absolution for me. There are no excuses for my behavior. There are only apologies. So I'm sorry. And I promise to do better."

He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if Tony wants forgiveness. He doesn't know what Tony needs to hear. He's never known what to say and he knows it. "Okay." His mouth is dry. "Then I-- I accept your apology." That has to be it, right? That has to be at least a start.

Tony exhales. He breathes out like he wants to laugh but he's trying to stop himself, and his eyes are full of a dazed relief. Steve thinks this is probably the end of the script.

"But if we're talking about this," Steve adds, because God knows he's never going to want to talk about it again, "then I owe you an apology. While we're at it."

Tony's mouth pulls to one side. " _Steve_." He sounds about as desperate to avoid any of this as Steve is. At least they're in it together.

He owes Tony this. He draws himself up and takes a breath and looks Tony levelly in the eyes, because he's not one to hide the truth. He wronged Tony, and he needs to own up to it.

He'd knocked the bottle out of Tony's hand, and Tony, even with most of his reflexes washed away, had cringed from him. Had pointed out that he was helpless without the suit. Had asked if Steve was going to beat him up.

He never wanted to be a bully.

"The last time we talked, I was cruel to you." Steve makes the words as simple as possible. They echo inside his head; they chase each other in circles. "I told you I didn't understand why you needed to drink, and to be honest, I-- I still don't, really." He feels like he can barely speak. "My father drank himself to death, and I was frightened for you, because all I knew was that you were killing yourself and I was helpless to stop it. I don't do well with that. Being helpless."

Tony's mouth is a thin line. His face is paler. He watches Steve in silence.

"I was... physically forceful." Steve chooses his words with care, and they cut him open to say. "I was... imposing. I yelled at you. I insulted you. I made you cry. And then I left you there alone. I gave up. And so I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have done what I did. Any of it."

He doesn't even know how much Tony remembers of that day. He's not sure he can ask.

Tony's mouth twitches. "You came back and saved me from a burning building, though. I have to say I'm pretty grateful for that. There's something you did right, huh?"

So he does remember. Steve feels his face heat. "I--"

"I accept your apology too," Tony says, awkwardly. "Okay. There. So we're-- we're...?"

It's awful that Tony can't even commit to saying _we're good_.

"Do you want a hug?" Steve blurts out.

Tony breaks into a smile, a real smile, and he doesn't even bother saying yes before he's out of the chair. Steve pushes himself upright and then Tony is in his arms and they're clinging to each other desperately, life preservers in a storm. Steve feels the tension in his chest unknot as Tony digs his fingers into his back. Tony breathes out against Steve's shoulder and he's shaking in Steve's arms and Steve can feel every bone in his spine but he's alive and he's here and he made it.

"I should have opened with the hug, I think," Tony mutters, and Steve starts laughing out of relief and something that might be happiness.

He wonders when the last time he was happy was.

"I missed you," Steve breathes. "God, Tony, I've missed you so much."

"Me too." Tony's voice is thick. 

He pulls away and he's blinking back tears and Steve just wants to hold him forever, but this is good. This is enough. This is more than he thought he'd ever have again. Tony is still holding him by the shoulders, and that's also good.

"I'm glad you're okay." He finds he can actually smile. "I mean, I know I don't understand what you went through. I can't pretend to. But I'm glad you made it."

Tony's hands slide away from him, and he's fidgeting with his hair again. "You could come to a meeting with me?"

Steve blinks. "I could? You'd want me to?" He thought they were private. "They'd really let me?"

"There are open meetings, yeah," Tony says. He shifts his weight. He's looking away again. "If-- if you want to."

"Of course I'll go," Steve says, and Tony smiles weakly in response. "How long are you planning to be in New York, anyway?"

Tony just got here. Something cold settles in Steve's stomach. He doesn't want him to go.

"This trip? Not long, unfortunately." Tony frowns. "A couple of days." But then he smiles and pats Steve's shoulder again, his hand sliding down and staying. "I'm planning on coming back pretty frequently. Don't fret, Winghead."

He hasn't heard that particular pet name from Tony in months. Since before all the drinking started. God, it's good to hear it again.

Maybe they're going to be okay.

"Not fretting, Shellhead," Steve says, and Tony smiles back. "Hey, while you're on this coast, do you want to go get real pizza after all? My treat."

"I'd love to," Tony says.

When they turn to the door, Tony's hand lingers, just a little, on the middle of Steve's back. Not quite a promise. A suggestion. Steve will take it. This is where they are, and this is where they're starting over.

**Author's Note:**

> The usual [Tumblr post](http://sineala.tumblr.com/post/176397813524/fic-the-ninth-step).


End file.
